Eric Taft
Eric Taft
Guatemala 2013-2014
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Eric Taft is a recent graduate of Belmont University's Social Entrepreneurship program. Eric is traveling to Chimaltenango, Guatemala with his wife, Hilary, to work on an economic development compound for one year. This is a dream come true. Read More About Eric →

The Hilary that Almost Stole Christmas

I love my sweet wife.  Life together is mostly a goofy, spontaneous struggle to avoid embarrassing ourselves in all circumstances.  Hilary’s latest battle has been with the whits of a 5-year-old.  When we received our last package of goodies from the United States, we opened the treasure trove to find a mountain of candy, Nutella, granola bars, and our Christmas present from my parents- a new Canon SX170 IS.  This beautiful camera will serve to replace my old Olympus that stroked out under pressure from Guatemala’s unforgiving humidity and I’m assuming a bit of old age.  Full of Christmas spirit, Hilary hung candy canes around the living room, thinking of accomplishing nothing more than a bit of festive decoration.  However, when Ale’s two girls arrived to see their house adorned with evidence of visitors from the North (North Pole north), they assumed none other than Santa had paid an early visit to drop off a few treats for two girls on the Nice-List.

Hilary hung Candy Canes all around the Living Room.

Hilary hung Candy Canes all around the Living Room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We played along and decided it would be fun to leave a treat for the girls each night, spreading Christmas joy as the girls would return home from swim practice to enjoy a little early-Christmas cheer once again.  Things got complicated when we returned home later than expected on Monday and the girls pulled in the driveway before we could set out their bag of Snickers.  Hilary snatched the bag from our room and ran to the living room, ripping at the bag and trying to look nonchalant about the situation.  At the same time, Ale’s oldest daughter jumped out of the car screaming about her excitement and bolted for the living room.  For me, the entire fiasco unfolded in slow motion before my eyes.  The little girl reached the door of the living room and her jaw dropped.  The sound of Hilary ripping the bag open had stopped and everything went silent for what seemed like a very long and intense period.  Hilary then slowly left the room and headed back to our bedroom, head bowed in shame.  The child caught her with her hand in the stocking.

For the rest of the night, Hilary attracted a miserable glare from the little girl.  Neither of us knew how to handle the situation.  If she got wise, we may have ruined Christmas and the secret of Santa for an adorable Guatemalan child.  The following day, Ale told Hilary of the storm that was brewing behind closed doors.  At first, the child decided Hilary had been the candy-planter, and the Santa story was a hoax all along.  Her mother played dumb.  Then, she realized a much more logical and believable explanation- Hilary is a candy thief and had her hand in the stocking to rob the Christmas treats!  In response, Hilary wrote a speech to apologize to the child that is undoubtedly terrified of the giant, pale thieves that have invaded her house, but has yet to muster the courage to deliver her apology.  In a covert attempt to cover our tracks, we have given all of the remaining pre-Christmas presents to the Grandmother to plant while we’re away.  This way, the children have to rule out the possibility that we were Santa all along.

Why will we be away?  I’m taking my girl to the beach for a few days.  I’m packing two shirts, a swimsuit, a pair of shorts, undies, socks, toiletries, and Common Wealth by Jeffrey Sachs.  Packing light for our Christmas beach vacation.  Enjoy your winter, America.

Packing light for our trip to Monterrico, Guatemala.

Packing light for our trip to Monterrico, Guatemala.

Day of the Devil

On Saturday, we left in search of the giant devil.  We had heard that in the Old City, a three-story Satan stood watching over the people for all of December 7.  Legend told that the devil watches over the town for a day, and at night the residents would rise together to burn the Hellenistic edifice to the ground, exclaiming victory once again against the evil forces of the world.  Though we never found the sky-scraping Lucifer, we returned from our venture with many a demon of a story to tell.

The first Saturday of each December is crowned “Day of the Devil” in various countries.  The purpose of this day is to recognize the malevolent hold on our lives caused by the accumulation of stuff- of possessions- our inevitable hoarding of piles of junk throughout the year.  On the first Saturday, every household collects their old papers, their rotting wood, and their dusty boxes to pile in the streets and reduce to ashes.  At 6pm, as the sun is setting, church bells ring and children set off fireworks as families set the year’s clutter ablaze.  At the same time, young boys drag devil piñatas through the dust and heap them onto their bonfires as they rejoice in the destruction of idle possessions.  The entire country celebrates together as they loosen the burden of the material world.

After the hour-long ride on El Herocito, Hilary and I pulled into Guatemala’s second colonial capital, Ciudad Vieja, or “Old City.”  On a bright afternoon around 1, we set off to find the rumored devil structure.  After looking amongst the dusty cobblestone streets and exploring the vibrant town square, we began to ask people where the devil was hiding.  A stagehand in the concert area told us that it would arrive at 6.  A traffic director told us all the devils were in the parade.  Though we had planned to drop by for a glimpse and head back home, we decided to stay for the festivities planned for later in the afternoon.  We were excited, but we had been warned not to drive back at night due to the streets being on fire and the village boys that might enjoy shooting a few gringos with a Roman Candle.  We asked around and eventually found a quaint hotel named Santa Valentina, that offered clean rooms and hot water for $31 a night.  We dropped off our helmets, scraped together some cash and headed back to the town square.

The parade was lining up and the Carnies were piecing together their makeshift festival rides.  Street vendors heated up their Churro machines and the taco chefs started to mince their meat.  The parade started around four and Hilary and I watched as float after float went by depicting verses from Revelation’s apocalypse and staged the scene for blonde-haired devil creatures that plotted the demise of each human onlooker.  The actors on the paper-mache hellscapes appeared to be writing down the names of sinners in the crowd who they would no doubt rejoice to capture and damn to the underworld for an eternity.  As I watched the acts unravel, I thought to myself how strange it is to make such a big deal of idle possessions- we have storage containers full of them in the US, and it’s hard to believe that accumulated junk could be such an attractive playground for the Prince of Darkness himself... or is it hard to believe at all?

This skillfully crafted float showcases a life-sized seven-headed dragon from the book of Revelations.

This skillfully crafted float showcases a life-sized seven-headed dragon from the book of Revelations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These tiny devils are decked out in their blonde-headed costumes.  It's a bit unnerving for Hilary that their devils sport long blonde locks.

These tiny devils are decked out in their blonde-headed costumes. It’s a bit unnerving for Hilary that their devils sport long blonde locks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the parade ended, we decided to make the rounds at all the food stands.  Although we were putting our stomachs in grave danger, we committed to enjoying all the delicious street food and suffer the consequences another day.  Our bowels rumbled as we piled up spicy beef tacos, chocolate-covered Churros, fried corn-kernels, and grilled filets of steak.  The next logical step was to ride the Ferris-Wheel- a romantic idea on a beautiful night that later on almost drove me to tears from pure terror.  As we stepped up to the carnival ride, I asked the attendant how much it costs to get on, and he replied Q10 per person.  That meant less than three dollars total, which I thought was a fair price for such an experience.  As we ascended the  stairs and began to more clearly understand our fate, Hilary leaned to me and whispered, “At Q10 a person, death is cheap.”

This colorful cart carries a trove of delicious Guatemalan Street Food.

This colorful cart carries a trove of delicious Guatemalan Street Food.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Upon closer inspection, we weren’t paying for a romantic whirl on a classic carnival favorite.  We were being locked into a death trap, a spinning wheel covered in loose/live wires that hung in a wad from the creaking giant.  The seats, stands, and connector bars were welded together in someone’s backyard and the entire contraption was operated from the chassis of a semi-truck that had been stripped from its cab and jerry-rigged to a deteriorating metal cable responsible for spinning the iron beast.  The seats were made of rotting wood and had no system of maintaining balance other than the precautions of the scared-stiff riders.  The entire scenario was a front-page catastrophe headline waiting to happen and somehow Hilary and I had just paid $2.50 to be a part of it.  As the wheel turned, Hilary and I stared straight ahead, not risking a movement that could flip us over in such an unsure seating arrangement.  To our surprise, the wheel increased in speed until we were completing an entire revolution in under two seconds.  Hilary sang praises to Jesus as I apologized profusely for leading us to such an early death.  To our amazement, the ride slowed to a stop with everyone on board still alive but very shaken.  As we began to breathe again and readied ourselves to step off onto still ground, the semi-truck engine roared as the wheel started to move again- repeating the entire experience in reverse.

This is the bottom of the Ferris Wheel, with live wires hanging in a veritable wad.

This is the bottom of the Ferris Wheel, with live wires hanging in a veritable wad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Captain of the Ferris Wheel sits here, controlling the terrifying edifice from a throne that probably used to ship chicken coops cross-country.

The Captain of the Ferris Wheel sits here, controlling the terrifying edifice from a throne that probably used to ship chicken coops cross-country.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We made it out alive, but we have a newfound respect for America’s safety standards.  Once back on the ground, we moved towards the bustling concert area, navigating an ocean of people and guarding ourselves against pickpockets.  I held Hilary close as we watched the Salsa-band perform their choreographed number on stage as fireworks burst overhead and the volcanoes loomed in the darkness.  We wandered through the park until we found an open spot and started dancing, repeating the only four salsa moves in our dance repertoire.  As we moved together through the old colonial park, other pairs of young lovers joined us to create a little heat by spinning on the cobblestones in the brisk Antigua night.

The town square is full of parents, children, lovers, and vagabonds celebrating their victory together.

The town square is full of parents, children, lovers, and vagabonds celebrating their victory together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like I said, we never found the towering devil rumored to be in the Old City.  Instead, we encountered a beautiful celebration that gave one of Guatemala’s oldest cities a young and intoxicating spirit. We experienced the magic of Guatemala that permeates the evening air and entices cold feet to dance.  After having some time to reflect on our spontaneous encounter, I believe it’s true that the devil is present in our junk more than we like to admit.  It seems to be worth celebrating when we loosen ourselves of our festering possessions to join our community and rejoice in our triumph over pettier things.  When we open our homes and our lives to harboring community instead of collecting dust, we expose the devil and force out his demons.  When Hilary and I set out to find the giant devil, we didn’t find a structure, but we found out where he was hiding- and all of Guatemala burned that sucker to the ground.

Camera Status

Many apologies- our camera broke.  We would very much like to share everything that has happened over the past couple of weeks, but it seems that the humidity in our village was too much for my 6-year old camera to handle.  We asked for a new camera for Christmas and I have been told that it is on its way.  I’ll make sure to snap some capturing photos in the weeks to come after it arrives.

Feed our Need to Read

About two weeks ago, at a very unfortunate time, we found out that our Internet has a limit.  It surprised us when, after finishing another episode of Breaking Bad, our modem notified us that we had used our 12 GB’s for the month.  That meant no emails, no updates, no Breaking Bad.  The last of those really devastated us.  We were already accustomed to reading books about 3 hours a night, but this news meant that’s what would consume most of our nights for the duration of the trip.  No matter, we enjoy reading and over the last two months have grown attached to our slowly expanding collection.  Somehow, our city doesn’t have a decent bookstore and to buy a book in Antigua, it can cost over $50.  To be candid, we would love to support the local bookshop, but we’re poor, so half a Benjamin is a little steep to feed our need to read.

We are thankful to our gracious parents for receiving our Amazon purchases and mailing the heavy packages of books all the way to Central America, but we know that sadly, we are doomed to run out of reading material sometime shortly after Christmas.  I would like to share a list of books that we have read, that we highly recommend.  In reply, if there are any books that have captured your time or imagination in the past or more recently, please recommend them in a comment here or on Facebook.   Email or FB me if you want the address to send care-packages, books, postcards, and Nutella if you are so inclined and can tolerate the shipping costs.  Without further ado, the list:

On the History of Guatemala:

A Beauty That Hurts- W. George Lovell

The CIA in Guatemala- Richard H. Immerman

I, Rigoberta Menchu- Rigoberta Menchu

The Art of Political Murder; Who Killed the Bishop- Francisco Goldman

Silence on the Mountain- Daniel Wilkinson

Still to Read- Bitter Fruit

 

Religion, Discovering Cultures, Novels:

Red Letter Revolution- Shane Claiborne and Tony Campolo

I Am Malala- Malala Yousafzai

The English Girl- Daniel Silva

Still to Read- The Kite Runner, Common Wealth

 

Flying Kites in Cowpies

I remember flying a kite with my dad when I was a kid.  My parents bought me a 4-foot-tall Darth Vader kite and dad took me down to the field by Percy Priest Dam.  I don’t remember it being particularly windy and I hadn’t expected anything spectacular to happen that day, but as soon as we offered Darth Vader to the sky, he flew.  That kite flew until it reached the clouds- we literally couldn’t see him anymore.  I imagine it went as far as the Death Star, but I have no proof to support my suspicions.  All we knew was that our spool kept spinning and the string kept climbing.  It took us an hour to fight Darth Vader back down to Nashville.

Barrilete Gigante

An exquisite kite creation, full of brilliant detail showcasing Ancient Maya artwork.

Guatemala takes kites to another level.  We took the motorcycle to the town of Sumpango to take part in my choice for the world’s coolest festival.  Teams of locals work the whole year round to build beautiful Barriletes Gigantes, or Giant Kites, that stand for one day as exquisite monuments to their country and what the imagination can do with extensive amounts of paper and bamboo.  Some standing as high as 100-feet-tall, each tells of the destruction of Guatemala’s natural resources, the horrors of the civil war, the strength of indigenous Maya, the warrior spirit of their people, etc.  As teams of fathers fought together on the soccer field to raise their masterpieces by conquering impressive systems of ropes and pullies, on the neighboring field their children depended on the winds to give flight to hundreds of kites.  The mosaic of kites against the clouds was as beautiful as the Barrilete masterpieces, and Hilary and I were honored to have a kite of our own in the flock.

The day after the festival, I took a kite up the hill to the family farm to relive some of the fun from Sumpango.  I had plenty of room to run on the field where the cows graze, but I was presented with some obstables non-existent the day before.  If you’ve never tried it, flying kites in cowpies is a bit of a meticulous exercise.  As the winds were unpredictable, I had to move around a lot to manipulate my toy into the sky, all the while I chose my steps very carefully.  Sometimes I fought the wind, and sometimes I partnered with it, doing whatever necessary to go a little bit higher with each gust.  Very often the kite would veer to the side, tilting almost to the point that would bring it crashing down among the cattle.  However, its long tail would whip it back to form and it climbed a little higher still.  There is a point above the earth, I imagine scientists have named it the “Kite Zone,” where you are freed from the struggle and as long as you have rope to give, the kite will continue to fly.  By the time I reached that zone, having achieved the honor of the highest flyer in Chimaltenango, I was sunburnt, my hands were aching, and my boots were caked in what I prayed was mud.  I returned to the house without a kite, as it had gotten stuck in a tree during its descent, but I was proud to have achieved what I did after facing so many challenges.

I reflect on my experience at the farm every day.  I think about how easy things were back in the States.  Each time I let go of Darth Vader, he flew.  I worked hard, but for me things usually just seemed to work out.  In Guatemala, things aren’t always so chipper.  Monte Cristo’s tourism business has lost two travel buses- worth over a combined $40,000- after being robbed at gunpoint two different times.  It is crippling to work so hard to bring economic opportunities to others only to have it stolen away for yourself.  The Groundskeeper at Monte Cristo has lived a sorrowful life- he was abducted by the army and tortured for weeks after they decided he was a communist subversive.  A few years later he lost his wife and sister to a landslide.  His story is grave, but his smile can brighten the darkest day.  Last Saturday, our friend Mario Jose graduated as a Doctor in Medicine, and he limped across the stage to accept his degree, still recovering from a Motorcycle accident that was supposed to take his life.  Hilary and I thank God for his strength and resolve to keep pushing forward, leading a beautiful family and working each week to teach women in Monte Cristo health skills that have saved countless lives.  Each day brings a new struggle in Guatemala, but their will to overcome is an unstoppable force.  I learn more from them each day, and I apply these lessons to overcome obstacles of my own.  When you find yourself in a field of cowpies and the winds above are unsure, choose your steps carefully and keep climbing.  With enough patience, kites fly.

Mario Jose is teaching local kids valuable health lessons.

Mario Jose is teaching local kids valuable health lessons.

The Monte Cristo Groundskeeper, a good friend and great man, smiling for another day.

The Monte Cristo Groundskeeper, a good friend and great man, smiling for another day.

Barrilete Gigante

This is the amazing festival in whole. Restaurants on the left, Gigantes in the middle, and the flock on the right.

Barrilete Gigante

A fierce Mayan Warrior God

Barrilete Gigante

The biggest of the kites at the festival, this enormous peacock has a drawing in its feathers of a Kaqchikel woman in Guatemala’s abundant nature.

Barrilete Gigante

These men are straining to pull up their immense creation.

Barrilete

Hilary is skillfully flying our humble kite among the flock.

Barriletes Gigantes

The flock of kites at the festival take flight each time it receives just the right gust. The skyline is incredible.

 

Thank your teachers.

My dad taught in Metro Public Schools for 26 years.  From Kindergartners to the pre-pubescents of 6th grade, my dad impacted the lives of countless students in the worst neighborhoods of Nashville.  He facilitated the lockdowns in East Nashville before it was a haven for baristas, when tattoo parlour seats were devoid of nostalgic hipsters, rather occupied by gangbangers getting yet another teardrop inked under their left eye.  On top of his daily grind with phonics and numerals, he was fighting behind enemy lines to save young kids faced with the slim chance of opportunity or the more well-traveled road of a life collecting teardrops.  The world will never know how many children he saved nor can it measure his impact.  Rest assured, as is the case for all of us, there are many young adults now leading productive lives that think back to their days with Mr. Taft and remember a teacher who changed them forever.

My dad, David Taft, on the right just before he conducted my wedding ceremony.

My dad, David Taft, on the right just before he conducted my wedding ceremony.

Teaching is a hard line of work, and much of it is spent convincing yourself that you’ve made a difference.  It is often analogized to the work of planting seeds, whereas others will have the privilege to see if your work grows and bears fruit.  I was present many of the nights that my dad came home tired, frustrated, and wondering if any of it was worth it.  Those memories give me strength on the days that I do the same.  To clarify, I have not spent a day at Monte Cristo working a fraction of the amount that my father ever did, and my stories of frustration will never come close to the epic tales catalogued in his career.  What I mean is that I get discouraged watching the teachers at Monte Cristo work with such sacrifice and dedication, only to be met with a very familiar bad attitude or general apathy of the students.  I understand that it may just be the middle school curse- to be cool means to be cynical and defy authority.  I guess I had romanticized our new home as to believe that ungrateful children were a phenomenon unique to the US, and any young person here in Guatemala, when faced with opportunity and benevolence, would meet it with enthusiasm and hard work.  I now understand that 14-year-olds just don’t work like that.

Our fight is the same as that of the classrooms I grew up in- getting students to complete their homework, put their phones away during class, and somehow convince teenage boys to stop hitting each other (that one might be hopeless).  Despite the fact that the students are receiving first-class education, inaccessible by any generation before them and most of the country still today, much of our work is just convincing them that education and learning have value, and to take advantage of this incredible opportunity many kids would sell their lives to have.  These are the things that frustrate me from day to day, the things that motivate Hilary and I to watch TED Talks on revolutionizing the education system and dream of the Utopia where all kids pass their exams and say thank you.  However, we know that’s not reality, but our current situation isn’t so simple either.

At a recent dinner-table conversation, pretty much my favorite time of the week, Alejandra told us a story that helped us to see the fruit of Monte Cristo, not just the planting of seeds.  One morning, she was driving a student to school.  School starts at 7:30am, so it was probably a little before 7 when this conversation took place.  The student asked if he could return home at 8, as in 8am, as in 30 minutes after school started.  Of course, Alejandra said no and explained that to go home early he would need a note from his parents excusing him for part of the day.  The boy accepted his rejection, and in Ale’s backseat, began to cry.  Confused and a little guilty, Ale stopped the car and asked the student why he was crying.  The boy explained that his father had died the night before and he would have stayed home, but he didn’t want to ruin his perfect attendance- his parents had been so proud of his record.  Ale promptly turned the car around and took the boy home to be with his family, attendance in tact.  When she arrived at his house, a place she had not actually seen before, her heart seized up and she began to cry as well.  This Monte Cristo student, his mother and his 9 siblings, lived under a roof of plastic; no walls, no rooms, just a makeshift tarp complete with less than that of a basic family camping tent.  The father was laid on a sheet on the ground, without a casket, in the clothes he had died in.  The family and a few community members were gathered around.  In complete shock, Ale called the school and arranged for them to bring chairs and food.  She asked the school carpenters to make a casket for the father and to assist the family with the burial.  The Monte Cristo community came together to conduct a funeral and lay the student’s father to rest with respect and dignity.  To continue their support of the family, once the funeral had passed, the school gathered some wood and helped to construct a new house, more suitable for this family of eleven.  I cannot imagine the eternal impact this gesture must have made.

To be fair, there are many students in Monte Cristo that are attentive, respectful, and some who are genuinely brilliant.  I am thankful for that group.  As for the whole of students, I admit that I have no idea what they go home to every night and what they leave each morning. Monte Cristo is a safe place for them, a place they wish they could never leave.  At Monte Cristo, they don’t have to work the fields, they don’t have to sleep among the animals, they don’t have to prepare dinner over the suffocating smoke of an open fire, and they know they are safe.  Even after their apathy, even after their muttered insults of disrespect, some day each student will look back at their teachers, their classrooms, and their experiences here, and they will remember a place that changed them forever.  I know there is hope for them because I believe there is hope for me, with all my shortcomings and all my ungratefulness.  Some day I will join them to look back at Monte Cristo as a place that transformed my life.  Knowing this, and having seen the glimpse of a beautiful and abundant harvest, I keep planting.

This is the bathroom of a family in Monte Cristo.

This is the bathroom of a family in Monte Cristo.

Top 5 Things

Our trip to Guatemala has so far been a whirlwind of learning, feeling ignorant, exploration, and gratitude.  Here is my Top 5 List of things we have done up to this point:

5. Trip to Iximche/ Atitlan

Last weekend, a friend asked us to accompany his family on a day-trip to Lake Atitlan that turned into a 2-day-trip after a stop off at some local Mayan Ruins ran a little long.  Iximche was an expansive Mayan civilization in the 1400’s, short-lived due to Spanish conquest a century later.  Compared to other popular ruins, it is relatively small but still beautiful and fascinating nonetheless.

Lake Atitlan, our destination on Day 2, is hard to describe.  After a rapid descent on perilous roads in a Toyota Yaris packed tight with 6 people, we arrived at a pristine lake surrounded by three volcanoes, cliffs, and waterfalls.  It felt like another world and definitively represents paradise on earth.  Neither pictures nor prose could do it justice, and to this moment I am still in shock that such a place exists.

Iximche Sun God Monument

This is a Mayan momument to the Sun God, on the Iximche property.

 

Iximche Soccer Field

This is a Mayan Soccer field on the Iximche property.

 

We took the boat out on Lake Atitlan.  You can see the volcanoes in the back.

We took the boat out on Lake Atitlan. You can see the volcanoes in the back.

 

Lake Atitlan Volcanoes

Here is a view of the volcanoes surrounding Lake Atitlan.

4. Playing Soccer with the Local Kids

Middle schoolers in Guatemala, much the same as America, are painfully awkward and terribly defiant toward authority.  Though I’m sure many of their snickers and scoffs are directed at the weird and freakishly tall Americans, they have their redeeming moments.  I’m honored each week when they break out the soccer ball and ask me to play.  I think they enjoy watching me stumble around like an oaf, but I enjoy the challenge.  I think the first time I scored a goal, I completed my initiation and they generally act warmer towards me now.  But for those that were still skeptical, I bribed them with free American techno music and they’ve come around too.

3. Hammocking on the Back Porch

Our house is incredibly accommodating and ridiculously beautiful.  Our back porch faces two volcanoes and sits on top of a coffee farm.  There aren’t many things in the world more peaceful than reading in our hammock on the porch, sitting beside a fire and listening to the local church choir echo through the valley.

Monte Cristo Guatemala

Much hammocking happens here.

2. Motorcycle Trips Through the Countryside

Monte Cristo owns a few motorcycles and every once in a while, Hilary and I need to borrow one to go to the store or grab something from the city.  And, on the beautiful days, we’ll strap on our boots and just ride through the mountains of Guatemala, cruising the dirt roads and traversing the occasional puddle.  Hilary holds tight on my waist while I try to navigate the Motocross-esque obstacles, a little distracted by the mountainous views extending behind the tree line.  Insanely romantic and a little too dangerous, we’re grateful to have each to enjoy the adventure.

AHM 150RX

1. The Conversation that Changed Everything

After having been at the Center for about a week, we requested a time to meet with the school administrator to discuss our specific roles at Monte Cristo.  She smiled and agreed and asked us to return to the office after lunch.  We returned, ready to lay out our plan on how much we would observe, how much we would study, and how much we would work, sure that our daily schedule was ready for implementation.  Alejandra asked us to sit, started to talk, and changed everything.

Hilary and I were under the impression that the school was fully sustainable, had everything figured out, and that we would spend the year mostly studying their perfect model.  Ale then proceeded to explain the history of Monte Cristo, the gracious donors who started the operation, and how they survived when donations ran dry.  It has been mostly a story of hardship and bootstrapping, but also of widespread impact and impressive results.  Many people have foregone pay and sacrificed the little they had to keep Monte Cristo running, and they’re ready for a change.  After briefing us on the history, we were asked to research the school’s assets, create a business, and find a way for the school to be self-sustainable so they could ensure its future.  In that moment, so much of my life made sense- my college major, my passions and my weaknesses.  In that moment I understood what my life had been leading to.  That was my favorite moment thus far.

Monte Cristo Guatemala

The entrance to Monte Cristo sits on the left and the front of our Casita on the right.

The Grey Parade

Each morning, Guatemala sets ablaze with color.  The sun fights its way through the fog to wake up the budding gardens and relieve the dew from its duty.  The city shops open their doors, all festively adorned, as the buses crank their engines, mobile museums of art unto themselves.  Women return to their looms, masterfully crafting traditional huipil dresses for their growing daughters while young men rifle through their drawers to select their soccer jersey for the day.  Each morning, as I wake up at my painstaking pace, drink my tea and dust off my jeans, I anticipate seeing my favorite color of Guatemala: The Grey.

On the weekends, I live with the Matriarch of Monte Cristo and her husband, Miky and Mario.  They are both astoundingly beautiful, so much so that I am sometimes convinced they are a King and Queen of a different Mayan era.  They both speak with soul-startling beauty, Miky with assured power and Mario with discerning wisdom.  Last Sunday, during breakfast with them, I asked Mario when he started his farming cooperative, the place he still works now.  Two hours later, I left the table a man more humble than when I had started my empanada.

He told me the story of how it started in the 70’s, an initiative to enable poor farmers to pool resources and get approved for credit so they could buy land to support their families.  It grew, rapidly, and soon was convicted, along with the rest of its kind, as a communist plot to disrupt national peace.  In 1980, the Cooperative became a clandestine operation, always working with the mission to help farmers rise out of poverty.  In the same year, a friend contacted Mario to let him know the government had put him on the Black List, and soon would be kidnapped, tortured, and killed like many others if he didn’t somehow intervene.

A priest offered to move Mario to Oklahoma, where he could work under asylum and send money back to his family.  Mario agreed and asked how the priest would finance his wife and three children to get to the states as well; with solemn eyes the priest confessed that the church could only afford a single one-way ticket, the only assured path for Mario to escape his certain fate.  Mario declined, unwilling to leave his family in danger.  He bought a new plot of land on the edge of town, a tall cornfield that he could hide a house in.  The family buried their Bible and anything else that the government could use to convict them of subversion, and lived out of sight for 2 years, always working to help others out of poverty.  Mario told me of others that weren’t as lucky, including American citizens, that weren’t able to hide from those looking and most of whom were last seen being thrown in the back of a military vehicle- no body, no record, no admittance of guilt in years to come.

When Mario told me of his American friends that lost their lives because they worked in economic development, he gave Hilary and I a look- not of worry for our safety, for those times have passed.  I think he was looking at a new generation, one that has the freedom to make the difference that was forbidden to generations past.  I think he was hoping to see the work of his friends vindicated.  Hilary and I are so far underqualified to meet the expectations of our gracious hosts, but we are here to try, and if possible, fulfill some of the work started by braver generations before.

Guatemala’s history is marred by armed conflict, bankrolled by an America trying to save a country from communism that was ultimately devoid of communists.  The atrocities committed by the government were horrific and extensive, kept mostly hidden from the world as it burned itself to the ground.  Indigenous Mayans, once the overwhelming majority of the population, were considered collateral damage as guerrilla revolutionaries challenged their dictators and army generals, who remained unphased by the desecration of human dignity.  A peace agreement was signed in 1996, but still kidnappings continue and the impunity rate remains of the highest in the world.  When I leave my door in the morning, timid about facing my challenges of the day, and I see the grandmothers and grandfathers of Guatemala marching, adorned in wrinkles and crowned with locks of flowing grey, I am witnessing the survival of a strangled nation, parading triumphant to see the earth turn their country towards the sun once more.

 

1 Quetzal Coin, about 15 Cents, with the date of the 1996 Peace Agreement proudly stamped on the bottom

One Quetzal Coin, about 15 Cents, with the date of the 1996 Peace Agreement proudly stamped on the bottom.

Disturbance

Disturbance

When the earth is disturbed
The bees will know it
And so will the hornets
The trees will know it.

When peace is disturbed
The doves will cry damned
And so will the lambs
Cry out.

When beauty is disturbed
The mountains will roar
The valleys torn asunder
Will send the rivers to shore.

When innocence is disturbed
The children will listen
Mother locks the door and Father kills the engine
Then stop the pistons.

When the wolf descends the crag
And snaps the branches
Lightfooted, swift, hungry, commanding
Everything goes underground, unless found

When justice is disturbed
The soul comes awake
And starts the fire
And causes the quake
And causes the tremble of the wolf
And causes the fear of the disturber
And causes the doors to fling open
And causes the pistons to turnover
The rivers rush back
The bees and hornets attack
The doves uncry
The branches unsnap
Mother and Father yell
And so do the children
Until peace, beauty, innocence, and justice
Return triumphant, indamnable, ungilded

 

Bees

Nest, 10 feet from my house

Volcano & Clouds

Volcano & Clouds, 20 feet from my house

Guatemalan Girl

Girl from Village Chel, 8 hours from my house

The Genius of Poverty

          After only six easy hours of travel, Hilary and I breezed through the Currency Exchange Stand, Customs, and retrieved all of our undamaged luggage.  We stepped outside the airport to face the moment we had been fearing- finding our ride.  Inside the gated waiting area, Hilary and I stood with all of our earthly belongings, four suitcases and two backpacks, looking like Guatemala´s most un-Guatemalan imports.  We stared at the sea of mocha faces and black hair, unable to distinguish between any except one.  Fredy was scheduled to pick us up, but our correspondence was only one email and the last time I saw him was two years prior.  I began resenting the concept of Latin-American Time and resolved that we might be waiting at least a few hours for our friend.  I started walking to the other end of the waiting area; Hilary asked “Eric, do you see him?” “Nope.” I popped up on the balls of my feet, trying to use my height to my advantage.  “Eric, do you see him?” “Nope.”  I looked at my bags, nervous and consternated, feeling numbingly vulnerable.  “Eric-“ I interrupted “Nope.”  Hilary yelled “Eric, come on!” as she scurried away from me, luggage in tow.  I looked past her hurried shoulder to see the only Guatemalan face I knew; two minutes after exiting the airport doors, we were safe in our new home. 

                Experiencing Guatemala for the first time is overwhelming for an American.  I stepped off the plane for the first time in 2010; I was 17 years old.  Even now, in my 3rd visit almost four years later, the differences between the two countries are a blend of excruciating and enveloping.  They are point blank and therapy.  I can´t imagine myself anywhere else. 

                Guatemala City welcomes visitors with lungfulls of car exhaust and a system of traffic incomprehensible for a Southeastern native.  After accepting one´s fate to inhaling the city´s toxic air, supplied without discrimination from an open window or the A/C vent, one will without doubt begin to look towards the bustling businesses alongside the road and ask themselves “How many car repair shops can possibly coexist in a square mile?”  The answer to that question, much the same as the subsequent “How many people can fit in one bus?” seems to be without limitation.

                As Fredy drove outside the city limits and up the mountainside, the images of extreme poverty returned.  I was reminded of how much strength and work ethic it requires to be poor.  I remembered the systems of utter destitution required to prop up modern economies.  I was freshly invigorated with a sense of why I came in the first place- to let go of the strength in my possessions and learn the genius of poverty.